“What's left of me. If I'd known you were going to be gone half the night, I'd have brought a blanket.” “Couldn't help it.” “I suppose not. Not even if she'd been fifty-five, with red hair and a squint, eh?” Beveridge, instead of laughing, made an impatient gesture. “Come out here in the light, Bert. Nobody around, is there?” “No. Our friend the policeman went by ten minutes ago. Just as well he didn't see you with your friend. They say he's a chum of McGlory's.” “See what you think of this,” said Bedloe, drawing the bottle from under his coat. “Hello, you don't mean to say you've got it?” “Take a good look.” “Yes, sir. Well, I 'll be----! There's the red seal, and the left foot a little out of drawing, and the right hand turned out instead of in, and--is it?--yes, an imperfection in the capital C. Yes, sir, you've got it! I won't say another word, Bill. You're a wizard. You must have hypnotized her.” “Well, I got it. No matter how. And I got something else, too. Here, step into the lumber yard before we're seen. Stenzenberger doesn't keep a private watchman, does he?” “No. He doesn't need it, with his friendly hold on the police.” A board was loose in the rear fence. Within a very few minutes the two men were stepping cautiously between the piles of lumber, Beveridge peering eagerly into the shadows, his companion watching him and following close behind. “Wish we'd brought a lantern, Bill.” “I thought of it. But it would hardly be safe.” “Come this way--over by the Murphy and McGlory shed. That's where it would have to be handled.” Silently they tiptoed forward, reaching out with their hands, to avoid a collision with the projecting timbers. Once Beveridge tripped and would have fallen if Wilson had not caught his arm. “Wait--keep still, Bert!” “It's all right. We're way back from the street here.” “It isn't the street I'm watching. See that light?” He pointed up to a second-story window in the adjoining building. “She's still up; and it's awful quiet around here.” A moment later Beveridge stopped and sniffed. “What is it, Bill?” “Don't you smell anything?” “Ye-yes, guess I do, a little. But there are a lot of old kegs and bottles on the other side of the fence.” “There are no old kegs about this.” He moved forward, feeling and sniffing his way along a pile of twelve-by-twelve timbers. “Here, have you that big jack-knife on you, Bert?” “Yes; here it is.” Cautiously, very cautiously, Beveridge began prying at the end of one of the big sticks. “Shall I lend a hand, Bill?” “No; it's got to be done without leaving any signs of our being here. It may take time--the thing is in for keeps, all right.” During fully a quarter of an hour they stood there, Beveridge prying with the long blade of the knife, his companion watching him without a word. Finally Beveridge gave a suppressed exclamation. “Fetched her?” “Yes. Take hold--easy now.”